


The Red Thing to Do: A Little Red Dress Fic

by Anonymous



Category: Charmed (TV 2018)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Macy's Little Red Dress, Masturbation, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-16 07:21:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21504031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Harry seems to be having trouble doing 'the right thing' even when he's alone.
Relationships: Harry Greenwood/Macy Vaughn
Comments: 17
Kudos: 126
Collections: Anonymous





	The Red Thing to Do: A Little Red Dress Fic

_He shouldn_ _’t be doing this. He absolutely, oh god- He can’t be doing this._

Harry tells himself for the hundredth time since he let his hand slip under the waistband of his underpants to cup himself. Macy was home and his three charges were finally safe from his other selfish, _charming_ self. Harry had taken the darklighter’s own knife and seen to that himself. He only wished he could have let his darker half suffer longer in pain and powerlessness just as Harry had.

As it was, Harry was the one left behind in a state of constant suffering. Suffering as he pulled his cock free from the thin cotton confines of his undergarments. Suffering even as the once more swelling flesh he’d been pointedly ignoring these past two days filled even more at each soft stroke and squeeze of Harry’s own hand. Fingers trailing, feather light, up one side to trace at the smooth head straining to peek out from his foreskin before skimming back down the other.

 _oh. oh god- Macy_ _…_

How many times in the past two days had he found himself fighting the ever growing, clamorous demands of his body? When would his heart stop racing at mere sight of her? How long until the need to be touched (stroked, petted, _held_ ) by her faded? How long he could tolerate a single hour in Macy’s presence without his cock stirring, or at terrifyingly inconvenient times, leaping to full attention at the weight of her hands on his arm as she tried once again to comfort him. _(Unnecessary. Undeserved.)_ Or _,_ dear god, the sight of her teeth pulling at her wide, soft-looking lips. Lips he’d memorized the shape of, yet knew he’d never be permitted to touch. Never to press his own lips against Macy’s nor sweep the taste her onto his tongue. And oh, how he wanted to know the taste of her. All of her. Any part of her that she would permit him to worship with lips and tongue.

Images of the woman that holds his heart burn through his mind as his hand curves more tightly on an upstroke. Harry sees Macy in that red dress its decadent fabric clinging to her every curve. Sees the sweep of its folds crossing from over one shoulder to under the other. Harry imagines burying his face against skin rising just above the slanted neckline, following it upwards with the brush of his nose and a line of soft kisses. He can practically smell the sweet and earthy heat rising from the column of her neck. He imagines his hands pressed against the bright red fabric. He can feel the fine texture of fabric rising and falling like braille against his palms as he strokes his hands down her back to cup and grasp hungrily at her bottom. He thinks how it would feel to press, even fully dressed, against the notch between her legs, the taut fabric denying him entrance but still providing such delicious pressure as to cause his breath to catch in his throat. In his imagination she feels the line of his cock pressing at her and she steps closer giving him tacit permission rock and rub against her.

_Yes. Oh thank god, yes._

In his bed, Harry groans at both the thought of it and the curving of his palm over the sensitive tip of his cock. His fingers twist and tease just beneath the spongy head until the pad of one finger, shining with pre-cum slides over just the right spot. Harry’s neck arches and his knees rise up, splaying out to welcome the phantom of a woman that will never be his.

 _Macy_ _… Please, Macy. I need you. I need-_

He needs-

No. What he needs, Harry tells himself, is to stop this twisted indulgence. Harry _needs_ to unwrap his hand from his stiff and leaking manhood and pull back the hand cupping and stroking at the soft, wrinkled skin below. He _needs_ to still the twitch and buck of his hips and banish these profane, _impossible_ visions of her gentle touch and love-laced voice.

This is so far from ‘the right thing’ it is veering dangerously close to insanity. Until the other night he’d only ever caught glimpses of the dress his suddenly unmanageable libido seems so focused on. She’d caught him looking that one cold, winter evening just before his fall into Tartarus. Their paths had crossed just as he was arriving at the house via ‘conventional’ means and she on her way out the door to attend a donor affair. He’d been a bit stunned and she’d been in a rush with her coat already on and one foot out the door. They’d traded nervous laughs and she’d disappeared into the night.

But now the flashes of red from his hazy memory have been replaced by the reality of Macy’s beautiful form wrapped so gloriously in that damned red dress. Harry thinks about the golden, zippered seam that runs the entire length of her side. Thinks about drawing the zipper down, peeling back the edges and pressing his lips to every inch he uncovers. Imagines that nothing lies between the heavy red fabric and her tawny, brown skin. 

Harry’s tongues snakes out to slide across his dry lips and he wonders what sounds she’d make if he were to close his lips around a dark, tightened nipple. Would she moan? Or scream? Would she choke out his name and tilt her chest towards him, encouraging him to pull more of her sweet breast into his mouth and suckle? Would she stroke his hair and whisper to him as he noisily worked at her breast with his lips and tongue?

 _Stop this, Harry. For god_ _’s sake, stop._

But for all his internal protests Harry’s hand still slides back down. He gives the shaft a firm squeeze before traveling down past the root of his bobbing erection and coming to a stop above the fingers tracing against his scrotum. He avoids the sweet patch of skin further back for the time being but still the rush of pleasure at his own touch drags him farther away from his resolve to stop. His hand twists as it makes it way back up his achingly hard length. His eyes screw shut as his palm cups and presses at the reddening head. The pads of his fingers collect the clear fluid seeping from him. He sweeps the slick fluid over the tip and down the underside of his cock, all the while picturing himself doing so under the warm scrutiny of the most extraordinary woman he has ever known. Macy stands before him in that red dress watching Harry wring moan after moan from his own lips. 

His hand moves faster, his grip tightening on each upward stroke. The fluid escaping the slit at his now fully exposed tip coating his palm for its return trip down to his tightened scrotum begging for equal attention.

 _oh god, oh god- Macy, Macy, yes, please. Macy_ _…_

His head presses into the firmness of the mattress as he grasps at himself, pulling and stroking, mind filling with visions of red cloth, bared shoulders, hair gathered low exposing the long column he longs to press his face into as pleasure courses over him.

Harry thinks of all things he’d say to her, ask of her, give of himself if he wasn’t, by sadistic design, so incomplete a being.

He strokes at his scrotum and thinks of her hand around his throat. He thinks of how her elegant fingers might feel if he were ever _bold_ enough to ask her touch him in such a way. His head turns and his face presses into his pillow. His pillow that she donated from her own bed when she and her sisters first put this room together for him. Macy’s pillow, Macy’s scent. Harry breathes it and his mouth closes on it to stifle the moan that travels up and out of his throat. His lips and teeth close around the softness and his tongue rasps against the cottony texture of the pillowcase imagining, wishing, longing for the taste and feel of salt and sweat. 

As his own fingers skim over the delicate skin behind his scrotum he thinks of her fingers stroking him there. Wonders if she’d laugh that soft, delighted laugh of hers when his entire body arches and twists for her. It’s too much and not enough. Harry’s hand leaves and rises to become a blur as he works the reddened top half of his rigid length. He can feel sweat forming at his forehead and heat blossoming and flushing his shoulders and chest. 

He’s so close. 

_Macy_ _… My Macy… Please… Yours…_

So close. So good. Damn him, if only…

So very, very clo-

Harry feels the first heavy drop of his cum hit his chest just before a strained ecstasy rushes through him. He knows his groans are dangerously loud. He barely keeps his lips pressed together, trapping her name on his tongue and swallowing it and his need, his love for her down.

Harry’s chest heaves in the aftermath and his head spins. But he barely gets a chance to sweep a lone soothing caress over his softening cock when he hears own name echoing through his euphoria-soaked mind. She’s calling to him.

The voice calling to him is filled with such purpose and piercing need that something inside him clenches with renewed want. And without a single further thought Harry Greenwood disappears from his bed.

-

In a whipping swirl of light Harry reappears standing naked at Macy’s bedside, chest and belly streaked with his spent pleasure. He stands frozen with mouth agape at the sight before him. There lit by moonlight, in nothing but a dark, unbuttoned pyjama top that seems a touch too large to really be hers, is Macy laying atop the wide expanse of her bed. Her eyes are closed and her long, slender fingers are working between her shining thighs. And through gritted teeth and around frustrated groans, she is _calling out his name_.

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I did actual *research* for this. As in wikipedia, anatomy books and _videos_ , okay? I kind of wish I hadn't but it's too late now and my brain has been seriously violated. I may never look at a boner the same way again.


End file.
